Winter Dream
I dreamed I was young again
or youngish
and a lovely girl loved me.
It was all perfectly
lovey-dovey –
intimacy occurred
and kept occurring
in private and to my
surprise in public.
Nobody much noticed,
except us;
it was unaccustomed
unselfconsciousness
we felt and
contentedly discussed.
It was my dream,
and soon enough
she pointed this out.
This stirred me from my sleep
back to dark winter:
our bed was still king-sized,
the hot-water-bottle between us
was lukewarm, the aches and pains
of my old age resumed;
she was here, no dream,
nor indeed yet old, held
quietly as if unconscious
in her own private dreaming.
Wednesday 1 July
Max Richards
in midwinter Melbourne
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